V.

My sister Clara is four years younger than I am. In form of face, in
complexion, and--except the eyes--in features, she bears a striking
resemblance to my father. Her expressions however, must be very like
what my mother's was. Whenever I have looked at her in her silent and
thoughtful moments, she has always appeared to freshen, and even to
increase, my vague, childish recollections of our lost mother. Her
eyes have that slight tinge of melancholy in their tenderness, and
that peculiar softness in their repose, which is only seen in blue
eyes. Her complexion, pale as my father's when she is neither speaking
nor moving, has in a far greater degree than his the tendency to
flush, not merely in moments of agitation, but even when she is
walking, or talking on any subject that interests her. Without this
peculiarity her paleness would be a defect. With it, the absence of
any colour in her complexion but the fugitive uncertain colour which I
have described, would to some eyes debar her from any claims to
beauty. And a beauty perhaps she is not--at least, in the ordinary
acceptation of the term.

The lower part of her face is rather too small for the upper, her
figure is too slight, the sensitiveness of her nervous organization is
too constantly visible in her actions and her looks. She would not fix
attention and admiration in a box at the opera; very few men passing
her in the street would turn round to look after her; very few women
would regard her with that slightingly attentive stare, that steady
depreciating scrutiny, which a dashing decided beauty so often
receives (and so often triumphs in receiving) from her personal
inferiors among her own sex. The greatest charms that my sister has on
the surface, come from beneath it.